You got this, bro!
by sincerelymendacious
Summary: Quentin learns about a new talent of Clem's.
1. Chapter 1

The entirety of this fic was inspired by discussions had on the Most Excellent Psychonauts Server. Special thanks goes out to my pals Headsplit, Elsh, and Ash. Many details, such as Clem working as a janitor and having an interest in writing, and the Quentin/Clem ship itself have its origin on that server.

* * *

"What're you writing there, Clemster?"

Clem pulled the thin spiral notebook he'd been writing in up towards his chest, hiding its contents from Quentin's inquiring gaze. "Clemster?" he said, raising an eyebrow at his friend. "I don't think that one's going to stick."

"Give it time, my man, give it time," Quentin replied as he sat down on the bench next to him. "So?" he said, pointing at the notebook expectantly.

They were in the lobby at HQ, about an hour after most agents had left the building. This was the period of time that Clem had designated as his break from his janitorial duties, as anybody who could have told him to get back to work was either at home or passed out drunk in their office. Quentin being here at this time was unusual and a good indication that he was having some sort of problem. Clem guessed that this problem's name began with a 'K' and ended with an 'aty'.

Clem didn't question him about it- one couldn't broach a serious subject with Quentin right off the bat, after all. "I'm keeping a log of all of your comings and goings," he answered casually, as though that were a totally normal thing to do. He pretended to write something down, comically exaggerating the motions of his pencil. "I've been doing it for months."

"Sweet, bro," Quentin laughed, putting his arms behind his head and slouching in his seat. "Phoebe's been getting real sick of reminding me about stuff I forgot."

"Good thing I'm here to pick up her slack, then."

"Seriously bro, what is it?" Quentin asked, genuinely interested. "I know it's not a log, because you got a super memory and don't need to write that kind of stuff down."

Clem paused, instinctively hesitant to open up about his writing to anyone, even a close friend. It was more out of habit than anything else; he knew that Quentin wouldn't mock him for it and that he had no ulterior motives in asking. He wasn't even being that pushy about it- despite his obvious curiosity, Quentin had made no attempts to peek at the notebook's contents.

That, more than anything, was why Clem gave him an honest answer instead of another joke. "One of the True Psychic Tales writers is retiring and they're planning on hiring someone to replace her." He shrugged, laying the notebook flat on his lap, exposing the words written on it. "I don't know. I thought I might as well give it a shot." He idly traced his pencil's eraser on the paper, chuckling dismissively at himself. "I don't have any experience, so it's probably not even going to get past the first editor."

"No way, bro!" Quentin exclaimed, his eyes wide and excited. He cast a quick glance down at the notebook and then looked back up at Clem, smiling brightly. "I had no idea you could write! That's so cool, wow!"

"Ah, yeah, I don't really tell that many people about it," Clem admitted. Up until now only Crystal had known about his interest in being a writer. "And I'm not a writer yet." He noticed an error on the page before him and began erasing it. "Sometimes I can barely remember my ABC's, haha."

"Man, don't talk like that!" Quentin said, punching him gently on the arm. "You're super funny and smart, so anything you write is gonna be rad as hell." He slid over on the bench and put an arm around Clem's shoulder. "I bet the editor's gonna read your story and be like woah!"

Clem stiffened at the touch- another habit- and then relaxed. "C'mon dude," he said, trying to ignore the odd fluttery feeling in his stomach. "You know my broke-brain can't process compliments at all."

"I'm serious, Clem!" Quentin insisted. "I bet next year it's gonna be your name on the cover of those comics. I can see it now." He made a broad, sweeping gesture with his hand as he spoke. "True Psychic Tales Issue Number Whatever: By Clem Foote."

Clem laughed, not really willing to believe such a thing could happen, but glad that Quentin could. "It wouldn't have my name on it," he said, "the authors always use pen names."

"Oh. Well, you focus on writing your awesome story, and I'll think of the ultimate pen name for you!" He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then suggested "How 'bout Gem Armme? With an extra 'm' and a silent 'e' at the end.

"That's almost as clever as Clemster," Clem said dryly. "You're on a roll tonight."

"Thanks, bro. Clemster's totally going to catch on, by the way," Quentin replied jokingly (it was already starting to grow on Clem, just a little). He sobered, his smile becoming more serious. "But really, Clem, thanks for telling me," he said, looking Clem directly in the eyes. "I know the whole 'being open' thing isn't easy for you, so it's like, really cool that you told me about this." He brought a hand to his mouth and mimed zipping his lips closed. "Stays between us, homeslice."

Clem looked away, unable to take anybody's genuine affection for very long. "It's not like it's a secret or anything," he said, suddenly finding his mop very interesting. "But thanks."


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey," Quentin said as he knocked on the apartment door. "Heyyyy…"

"Why are you knocking on your own door?" Clem asked with amusement as Quentin banged on pointlessly.

"Phoebe…" In his drunken state her name came out sounding more like "Feeee-be" than the way it was supposed to be pronounced. "She's gonna let us in." He continued pounding on the door as he spoke, each hit vaguely resembling a beat from one of his songs.

"Dude, Phoebe moved out last week," Clem said, sending a quick glance at the neighbor's door. As entertaining as this display was, he knew he'd probably need to put an end to it before somebody else did it for him. "She's not in there."

Quentin's raised fist stopped just before it hit the wood. He turned his head towards Clem, eyes glazed and mouth hanging open as he processed the information he'd just been given. "Huh?"

"She moved into Mikhail's place, remember?"

Something similar to enlightenment flickered onto Quentin's face, followed by a furrowing of brows. "Oh…but…" He looked back at the door, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "But if she's not here…who's gonna let us in?"

Clem shrugged. "Guess we're sleeping out here."

"Nooo!" Quentin yelled out, his shout echoing down the hall. He jabbed a finger at Clem's chest. "The new official True Psychic Tales writer," another poke, "can't sleep outside like some kind of…person who sleeps in halls." He sounded offended that Clem would even suggest such a thing. "No way," he said, shaking his head. "Not happening, broham."

Now didn't seem like the time to mention that he'd spent the night in much worse places than a clean hall with a comfortable looking carpet. "What are you going to do then?" Clem inquired, trying (and failing) to keep his tone serious.

"I have…" Quentin began, patting himself down, turning the empty pockets of his skinny jeans inside out. "I got keys…somewhere," he slurred, searching his jacket now.

That somewhere was actually in Clem's back pocket- Quentin had accidentally left them on the bar and he'd grabbed them just as they were leaving- but he had a feeling that he wouldn't need them. He leaned forward, his height allowing him to effortlessly reach past Quentin, and placed his hand on the doorknob. The door opened with one twist of his wrist, the light from the hall illuminating a small section of the room beyond.

Quentin blinked, staring into the suddenly open space before him, then laughed and slapped Clem on the shoulder. "Shit man," he said as he staggered into his apartment. "Is there any problem you can't solve?"

"Only my crippling emotional ones," Clem replied lightly as he followed.

Quentin slapped his hand over the light switch, and after a bit of trial and error, managed to get the light on. The apartment was small, the living room and kitchen sharing one area, with a short hallway leading to the bedrooms and bathroom to the immediate left of the entrance. Though she'd only been gone a week, the effects of Phoebe's absence were immediately evident- the place wasn't a wreck yet, but there were more dishes in the sink and more junk piled onto the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen than there had been when she had lived there.

Quentin stumbled off to the kitchen, opening the fridge and considering its contents with the same amount of thoughtfulness that he had scrutinized the door with earlier. He caught sight of Clem watching him and gave him a lopsided grin. "Gotta find us some premium snackage, bro."

"Need any help?"

"No, no." Quentin waved his offer of help away and gestured in the direction of the striped monstrosity he called a couch. "You go make yourself at home." He shut the fridge, having deemed none of its contents as premium enough for his guest and moved onto the cabinets.

Clem headed over to the couch, an enormous mustard-yellow thing with bright red vertical stripes that took up nearly half of the living room. It was way too big for the space that it was in, in addition to being hideous, but Quentin had told him that he thought its ugliness had its own weird appeal.

"Is that why you hang around me?" Clem had asked the day he'd first seen it.

"C'mon, man," Quentin had replied, punching him gently in the arm.

He hopped over the back of the couch, kicking off his converse sneakers as he settled into his seat. Behind him he heard cabinet doors open, close, open again, and then a whole bunch of thumps in rapid succession that indicated an avalanche of some kind. Clem looked back over at the kitchen to see Quentin with his arms full of containers and bags, with more of them scattered on the counter and sink. "Nah, don't get up!" Quentin said quickly when Clem began to rise. His arm shot forward, a box of Ritz crackers falling out of his arms and to the floor. "I got this under control," he insisted as he ducked down to pick the box up. "All Jeremy Clemster has to do is just chill."

Jeremy Clemster was the name that was currently printed on every cover of the newest True Psychic Tales, right underneath the words 'story by'. The pseudonym had been one he'd suggested to the editor as a joke, "Clemster" being one of the many nicknames for him that Quentin rotated through on a regular basis. The editor had liked it enough to use it and thus Clem was stuck with it for the time being.

He didn't really mind all that much.

Jeremy Clemster's success was the reason why Quentin was currently staggering around his kitchen making a mess, and why Clem's head swam with a pleasant buzz as he reclined on the couch. They'd gone out to celebrate- they being himself, Quentin, Crystal, Phoebe, Mikhail, and an assortment of work-acquaintances that had come and gone so rapidly that Clem hadn't been able to keep track of them. Bars weren't really Clem's thing, but he'd had a nice enough time, nursing two beers and watching the antics of his friends. His co-workers had offered their congratulations, and he'd accepted them as politely as he could despite the unease such things typically gave him. They'd left shortly after midnight, mostly because Mikhail had been trying to get someone to engage in a shot contest with him and the already drunk Quentin had been on the verge of volunteering himself. So he had ushered Quentin out and back to his apartment building before any disasters could ensue, and now Clem was laying back on one of the few pieces of furniture long enough to accommodate his six-foot-eight-inch frame, bracing himself for whatever gluten-free vegan snack Quentin was about to serve to him. He just hoped it wasn't those quinoa-bites he'd been given last week.

Luckily, Quentin decided to spare him the weird health food, instead setting down a bag of sweet-chilli Doritos and two Cokes on the coffee table before sitting down. "What, no kale chips?" Clem said as he sat up to give Quentin some room.

"I think Phoebe took those with her when she left," Quentin replied before stuffing a handful of Doritos into his mouth. "Oh!" He shot off the couch and walked over to the books shelf across the room, his body moving faster than his brain and nearly crashing into it. "Got you something!" he said, his mouth still full of chips.

"Oh yeah?" Clem said, flipping open the tab of his Coke.

Quentin pulled what looked like a VHS tape off the shelf and hastily hid it behind his back. "Close your eyes," he ordered, grinning mischievously.

Clem paused, the can of Coke halfway to his mouth. "Close my eyes? Why?"

"Because it's a surprise, dude!"

"What's closing my eyes supposed to do, though?" Clem teased. "You know I can read your mind, right?"

"You won't, though," Quentin said as he side-stepped towards the T.V. console.

He was right. Clem took a sip of his drink and closed his eyes, his lips twitching upwards as Quentin struggled to get the tape into the VCR. He eventually got it right (after realizing that he'd been putting the tape in backwards) and soon enough the T.V. was on and Quentin was back on the couch next to him. A few previews for films that were up and coming maybe twenty years ago played on the screen, followed by the animated opening credits of Better Off Dead. "Where'd you find this?" Clem asked, not really surprised (what other movie would Quentin think to get him as a gift, after all?) but certainly grateful.

"At that thrift store you like to make fun of so much," Quentin answered, passing the Doritos over to Clem.

"I was wrong to ever disparage their selection of tweed jackets and weird knick-knacks," Clem said solemnly, accepting the bag. They were sitting close, Clem realized, not too close, not piled up on top of each other, but close enough so that his right leg and Quentin's left were touching. He slide his leg over a fraction, but huh, wouldn't you know it, Quentin's leg just happened to move over in the same direction, right at the exact same moment.

Clem told himself it was nothing to get excited about. Still, he let his leg stay where it was, maybe allowed himself to get a centimeter closer. Easy enough to blame it on the beers.

* * *

Three hours later they practically were piled up on each other, Quentin's arm draped along the back of the couch and his head drooping down on Clem's shoulder. Better Off Dead had ended an hour and a half ago, and they'd been marathoning season three of Scrubs ever since, the Doritos switched out for a can of salt and vinegar Pringles.

Clem couldn't tell if Quentin was asleep or simply too exhausted to keep himself upright, having depleted whatever energy he'd had that had allowed him to move around in his inebriated state. "Hey," he said, giving Quentin a nudge in the ribs. "You still with me?"

With obvious effort, Quentin lifted his head and made some kind of groaning noise that would not have been out of place in a zombie-themed horror movie. "Jeez, dude," Clem said, laughing as Quentin's head dropped back onto his shoulder.

" 'm okay."

"You want me to turn this off?"

"No…" His arm fell from the back of the couch and landed on Clem's shoulder. "Keep it on…"

"Ah…" Quentin's fingers played with the collar of Clem's shirt, bunching up the material and brushing against his collarbone. Clem put his hand over Quentin's, stopping the movements, but made no other move to push him away. They sat like this for a moment, with only the sound of Dr. Cox berating J.D. on the television to prevent there being a silence between them. "Maybe you should go to bed," Clem suggested.

"'wanna stay on the couch," Quentin mumbled, tipping forward enough so that his head slid off of Clem's shoulder and onto his chest.

Physical contact like this wasn't unusual for Quentin, drunk or sober. He was always the first one to pat you on the back or pull you into a hug. Adjusting to Quentin's casual touches had been difficult for Clem, whose previous encounters with physical affection had been severely limited, but he'd gotten used to it over the years.

Or, at least, he thought that he had. Quentin brought his free hand up to meet the one on Clem's shoulder, locking him in an embrace, and then buried his face in Clem's shoulder, his warm breath hitting the bare skin of his neck. He grasped one of Quentin's arms, unsure of whether he wanted to push him away or pull him closer, the soft, earthy scent of Quentin's weird Alaskan shampoo making his thoughts all fuzzy. "Easy now," Clem said the pitch of his voice higher than it normally was. "You don't want to sleep on me," he said, as he tried to untangle himself from Quentin's hold. "That busted up bench at the bus stop would make a better pillow than my gangly self."

Quentin's head snapped up, and his expression, previously slack with exhaustion, morphed into one of heartfelt concern. "Aw, dude, c'mon… don't put yourself down like that!"

Clem blinked, then laughed, amused by how reassuring Quentin was trying to sound, as though he thought Clem felt bad about not being comfortable to sleep on. "Its fine," he said, shrugging his shoulders as best he could with Quentin's arms still draped around him. "I've come to terms with the fact that I will never be a good pillow."

"That's not true bro!" Quentin argued, shaking his head. He moved even closer, his leg crossing over Clem's. "You could totally be a good pillow," he paused to swallow, "if you put your mind to it."

His voice was a little scratchy- likely due to him drinking nothing but alcohol and soda all night. Clem grabbed Quentin's wrists and maneuvered himself out of his hold. "I'm gonna get us some water," he explained, moving to rise. He got halfway up off the couch before Quentin snatched his arm and pulled him back down. "What-"

"Lay back," Quentin ordered.

"What, ah, hey." Quentin was now in his lap and forcing him backwards onto the arm of the couch. Clem grasped him by the biceps, but didn't push him off completely. "Look, I know I let you buy me those drinks," he said, a flush creeping up the back of his neck, "but I'm really not that kind of guy, hahahaha…"

The joke (admittedly not one of his better ones) went right over Quentin's head and didn't deter him one bit. "Listen you always…always said you sucked at writing." He sat up a little straighter, speaking in a poor imitation of Clem's voice. "Sometimes I can't even remember my ABC's."

"I think you need to work on that a little," Clem said, shifting into a marginally more comfortable position. "You've got to sound more like you're on the edge of breaking down at any minute."

"But you don't suck at writing!" Quentin continued, "and you could totally be a great pillow too, if you tried. 'Cuz you put your all into everything you do."

His had become choked with emotion, and his words would have been almost inspirational had the subject matter and circumstances been different. But since Quentin was drunkenly speculating on Clem's potential as a sleep aid, the speech was merely comical. "Alright, let me up." When Quentin didn't move, Clem pushed him back and rolled out from under him. "You need to get some water before you pass out," he said as he headed over to the kitchen.

He returned a minute later with a glass of water and two aspirin. "Take these," he said as he handed it over. "Your head will thank me later."

"It usually does," Quentin said, popping the pills and then washing them down with a gulp of water. He seemed to have sobered up a little in the short time that Clem had been gone, perhaps realizing just how out of it he was. "Thanks, bro."

"No problem." A drop of water was trickling down Quentin's chin. Clem reached out and wiped it away with the back of his hand, causing Quentin's cheeks to redden (though that, Clem reasoned, could have just been from the alcohol). "Move over."

Quentin did so, clumsily scooting over to one end of the couch as Clem reclined on the other, careful not to kick his friend as he swung his legs onto the cushions. A moment passed in which neither of them moved or spoke, just kind of stared at each other, until Clem telekinetically switched off the lights and shut the television off.

He heard Quentin set the glass on the coffee table, and then felt him crawling onto his body a second later, the couch creaking with his sluggish movements. His head dropped down onto Clem's chest, the side of his face pressed against his shirt. The creases in the fabric would likely leave marks on that side of Quentin's face, and Clem couldn't help but smile at the image of Quentin waking up like that in the morning. _Well, at least he took that aspirin._

Quentin seemed to pass out immediately,his body going limp and his breathing becoming slow and even. Clem carefully brought his left arm up and placed it gently over Quentin's back, as keeping it where it was would have cut his circulation off. Quentin stirred the moment his arm made contact. "Bro," he said softly, mumbling the word into Clem's chest. He worked his fingers into a thumbs up. "You're doing awesome."

"Sweet. You think I should quit writing and just devote myself to this full time?" Quentin didn't reply, apparently having expended the last of his energy giving Clem that thumbs up. "I'll take that as a yes, totally quit your day job."

Silence fell then, one that felt heavier without the lights and the television to ward it off. Though the blinds weren't drawn, the outside world brightened little within the apartment, leaving the furniture and fixtures mere outlines in the darkness. Clem pushed himself upwards, so that his back rested on the arm of the couch instead of his neck, telekinetically grabbing a cushion off of the floor and setting it behind him. Quentin did not move throughout any of this, and Clem guessed that nothing short of being thrown onto the floor would have woken him at this point.

He laid there for a few minutes, staring blankly into the darkness as Quentin slept, the weight of his body a pleasant heaviness over his own. After a while it seemed like they were breathing in sync with one another, their chests rising and falling at the same pace. Clem raised the arm that had been dangling off the side of the couch placed his hand on Quentin's back and then let it drift upwards, sliding it over his t-shirt and over the nape of his neck, his fingers lingering briefly on the skin before moving on to his head.

He did this without even really noticing that he was doing it, only barely registering just how soft the short, red strands of Quentin's hair were as they passed through his fingertips. The workday and the party was long over, and now the dull, empty feeling that always seem to come over him was creeping into his mind, like a venomous snake slithering under a fence. Even in the best of times (and Clem certainly couldn't recall there ever being a better time in his life) this feeling of utter bleakness would manifest, the same kind of numb hopelessness he'd felt back when he lived in Gary with his parents.

He knew he should be proud of himself, but he wasn't. He should have been happy, and he was trying to be, but the best he could manage was a mild sort of contentment and not the ecstatic excitement he should have been experiencing, given the magnitude of his achievement. It felt wrong to put 'Clem Foote' in a sentence with the word 'succeed' in it without some variant of 'didn't' somewhere in the mix, but that was indeed what had happened. He could go down to the nearest corner store and find the issue of True Psychic Tales that he had written alongside the crossword puzzles and skin-rags, and next month another one would take its place.

He cupped the back of Quentin's head and began idly rubbing circles into his scalp as he ran through the thoughts that had plagued him ever since he'd gotten word that he'd been chosen to replace the TPT writer who had retired. Rejection would have been easier to deal with. Failure was something he gotten used to, it being a constant companion of his over the years, but success had been much rarer and he had no idea how to cope with it. Now that he'd actually reached one of his goals, he couldn't stop thinking about how it wouldn't last, how he'd eventually run out of ideas or lose his ability to write those ideas out. Shit, for all he knew the Psychonauts might just decide to axe the TPT department tomorrow, rendering all of his hard work for nothing.

He almost laughed then, at just how utterly broken his brain was, but couldn't quite get the noise out. Unthinkingly he curled his finger's inward, digging his nails into Quentin's scalp. The action elicited a soft sigh from his friend, and Clem immediately flattened his hand, the barely audible sound causing a warmth to pool in the pit of his stomach. A moment passed, and then Clem racked his nails against Quentin's scalp a second time, scratching harder than he had previously.

The groan that passed through Quentin's lips only encouraged Clem further, and so he did it again, scratching from his bangs to the back of his head, almost touching the back of his neck. He could have sworn that Quentin pressed himself against his chest even harder when he grazed a spot just above his ear, the arms he had wrapped around Clem's torso clutching him tightly.

He kept running his hands through Quentin's hair, scratching abstract patterns into his scalp and taking note of every one of Quentin's reactions. Perhaps this was wrong, he considered, brushing Quentin's bangs off of his forehead. Not only was Quentin passed out, he was also more than a little drunk. The thought stopped him for a second, and within that second Quentin, still asleep, let out an impatient grunt that sounded almost like a demand. Clem resumed his ministrations, reasoning that, given how Quentin usually behaved while sober and awake, he would not have minded any of this.

His mood felt lighter now, although he couldn't fool himself into thinking that he wouldn't be mulling over his dark thoughts later in the night. Quentin was good at that, good at distracting him from his own bullshit for short, sweet bursts of time. Clem hadn't voiced any of his true thoughts about his new career opportunity to anyone- there had been no point, there weren't any magic words anyone could say to make him feel better- but he thought that Quentin must have somehow picked up on the fact that he wasn't as happy about this as he should have been. Why else would he have arranged tonight's celebration? Why else would he have so recently bought Clem's favorite film for them to watch together? Granted, Clem doubted that Quentin had intended on getting as drunk as he had or collapsing on top of him, but it was still obvious that everything else had been planned with making him feel better in mind.

Clem took a slow, relaxing breath, his hand still caressing Quentin's hair. Logically, he knew that it was stupid and pointless to be depressed about the end of something that had just begun. Didn't everything come to a close, anyway? Wasn't life just one long, steady march towards the final sleep of death? He thought about how Quentin would react if he were to say all this in the morning.

"Well, dang bro," the future Quentin in his head replied, still hungover from the night before and hair sticking up all over the place. "At least you get to do something you love; even if it's not gonna last forever."

The vision made Clem smile; even if he knew that he probably wouldn't actually bring the subject up at all in the morning. He closed his eyes and pulled Quentin closer to him, not really expecting to get any sleep, and completely okay with that.


End file.
